_Rome, morning of the 17th Nov_., 1847.--It seems great folly to send
the enclosed letter. I have written it in my nightly fever. All day
I dissipate my thoughts on outward beauty. I have many thoughts,
happiest moments, but as yet I do not have even this part in a
congenial way. I go about in a coach with several people; but English
and Americans are not at home here. Since I have experienced the
different atmosphere of the European mind, and been allied with it,
nay, mingled in the bonds of love, I suffer more than ever from that
which is peculiarly American or English. I should like to cease from
hearing the language for a time. Perhaps I should return to it; but
at present I am in a state of unnatural divorce from what I was most
allied to.
There is a Polish countess here, who likes me much. She has been very
handsome, still is, in the style of the full-blown rose. She is a
widow, very rich, one of the emancipated women, naturally vivacious,
and with talent. This woman _envies me_; she says, "How happy you are;
so free, so serene, so attractive, so self-possessed!" I say not a
word, but I do not look on myself as particularly enviable. A little
money would have made me much more so; a little money would have
enabled me to come here long ago, and find those that belong to me, or
at least try my experiments; then my health would never have sunk, nor
the best years of my life been wasted in useless friction. Had I money
now,--could I only remain, take a faithful servant, and live alone,
and still see those I love when it is best, that would suit me. It
seems to me, very soon I shall be calmed, and begin to enjoy.